


Komorebi

by zombified_queer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Murder, Purple Prose, Word-based prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 20:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: The effect of sunlight streaming through the trees.Will's up to something between those trees, so Hannibal lets himself be led.





	Komorebi

He pulls up to Will’s house and knows immediately that something is wrong. There’s just a simple motion of the curtain, a flash of hazel eyes behind a glint of glasses in the window, a gesture signalling Hannibal that Will is home. But he doesn’t greet Hannibal, doesn’t step out onto the porch, bundled up tightly like a downy chick and waving at Hannibal’s car with a grin. And Will would know it’s him. Will Graham’s committed Hannibal’s license plate to memory, his ears picking up easy on the smooth purr of Hannibal’s well-oiled machine. 

It also signals, in a flash of red against those powder-blue curtains, something has changed with Will.

Will opens the front door and, before Hannibal can get out of his car, before he can roll down a window and call out to Will, he’s gone, darting off into the woods. It’s erratic, spontaneous, and Hannibal finds himself entranced, enticed into seeing what secrets Will’s hidden in those dark nooks between the trees, what he’s buried beneath frigid earth and the blanket of snow blown in from last night’s blizzard.

Hannibal follows the tracks, just moment old, that Will has left for him. The snow is deep, and the slow pace Hannibal ends up adopting makes him worry. Will must be freezing out here, must be dying for the slightest bit of warmth.

Will’s brought Hannibal to a clearing, the profiler standing and staring at the thing in the centre. Sunlight cuts through the trees, black and white stripes cutting across the body, posed like a trophy kill in a hunter’s lodge, reared up on hind legs, claws frozen mid-swipe in the air. 

Hannibal can tell, based on the snow that’s piled high around the carved wooden base and dusting that catches the light and sparkles in the fur of Will’s creation, that this has all been set up last night, hours of work put into the artistry, left up with the intent to show Hannibal, by the dawn’s first rays, his project. 

Will’s breathing is shallow, minute puffs of white in the morning air. He’s dressed improperly for the picnic he’s planned, dressed in his too-large flannel and jeans, his hands dyed deep red, nearly black, and the blood flaking off into the snow, which shines like a hundred knives or a hundred diamonds. The lenses of his glasses are smeared, just faintly, enough to give the glass the pink cast that’s missing from Will’s own flesh.

Hannibal places a hand on the small of Will’s back, finding him shivering. Softly, with his breath warm against the shell of Will’s ear, Hannibal murmurs, “You’ve done it.”

Will nods, saying nothing and continuing to shiver under Hannibal’s hands. In a single motion, Hannibal pulls off his coat, draping it around Will’s shoulders to keep him warm.

“It is so very beautiful, Will,” Hannibal adds, this time while he takes in Will’s needlepoint. He’ll need more work, more training in the finer details, but it is a fine thing to witness. “I’m very proud.”

Hannibal keeps a hand on the small of Will’s back, guiding him back to his cabin, steadying Will through the deep drifts of snow. 

The dogs, at Hannibal’s sharp command, sit like furred soldiers lined up. Hannibal guides Will to the bathroom, undressing Will with a certain efficiency, care in every touch. There’s some sort of shock behind Will’s eyes and Hannibal takes Will’s glasses slowly, folding them and setting them on the counter. He takes Will’s face in both hands, locking eyes with him.

“You are with me,” Hannibal says slowly, calmly, just as much a command as with the dogs. “Come back to me Will.” 

Will grasps at Hannibal’s back, clutching him for warmth. 

“Let me run you a bath,” Hannibal murmurs. 

Will nods, reluctantly letting go. 

Hannibal runs the water hot, needing to get some life into Will’s skin. He’s cold, like he’s been stored in a morgue and shambled his way through miles of frigid white expanse, dirt roads sucking the heat out of Will’s skin, all of it just so he can get back to Hannibal. He doesn’t protest when Hannibal guides him down into the water, never says a word as Hannibal’s hands massage some of that shock and tension out of Will’s shoulders, thumbs pressing at the nape of Will’s neck.

But it might be that Hannibal’s hands are warm and all of Will is so frigid. Hannibal half expects Will’s mouth to freeze over, eyes blind blocks of solid ice.

“I’ll handle everything,” Hannibal promises. 

“I trust you, Hannibal.”

It’s all the permission he needs.

When he returns, in the late afternoon to check on Will, hands full with a tray laden with coffee and a light lunch, he finds Will’s run himself another tubful of hot water, head resting against the rim, dozing off. The sun, higher now in the sky, is obscured by the tops of the pines, the rays reflected through the window onto Will’s napping face, those spots of warmth landing on Will’s chest. It seems a pity to wake him. 

“Will.”

Will says nothing, but opens his hazel eyes to stare at his companion.

“I can hardly let you soak all day,” Hannibal chides, offering Will the mug of black coffee.

When he lifts a hand to take it, the sunlight falls on Will’s hand, paler now without the crust of blood running up to his elbows. Hannibal can’t stop himself from licking his lips.

“You look hungry,” Will comments.

“And you look very, very cold, Will,” Hannibal replies. “I think the living room gets more sun this time of day.”


End file.
